August 6-7, 2023

August 6: ~3 miles hiked 

I wake up without an alarm around 7:45. It’s smoky today all of a sudden. I’m extremely grateful all over again for the great weather we’ve had this whole trip. Apart from Trauma Night, as we’ve been calling the cold wet talus experience, it has been very pleasant since the start of the hike. I guess the Brooks is just sad to see us go. 

I can tell from the way the others are rattling around and talking that they’ve been up for a while. I hear Carrot suggest a little hike. The others agree. She comes over to my tent and asks if I want to join and it’s immediately no from me. I know I’m going to have massive FOMO when I see the cool stuff they find, but I just want to have a chill morning. Plus I haven’t had my coffee yet. I wouldn’t want to put them through several hours of me without coffee. 

The three of them set off and I’m there cooking my little pot of coffee and eating a bagel and cream cheese, staring at the weird orange wildfire sun. It strikes me suddenly that I could very well see a bear now that I’m alone and there isn’t the noise of our conversation. But I’m not that concerned about it. We’re not in the trees or anything, and I can see for miles even with the haze. I start playing my Braiding Sweetgrass audiobook and get swept away in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s soothing voice. I assigned this book as summer reading to my AP Language class, so I’m refreshing my memory. I love it so much. It feels like going home to be listening to these words again. I can remember the exact moment on the AT when I first listened to each chapter. I feel more connected to that version of myself now, suddenly, and to the earth. Lying on the moss. Warm in the sun. Here in these mountains. Eating a bagel. Hmm, bagel.

I’m all packed up and just sitting there enjoying the day when Carrot, Gahl, and Chelsea return. They didn’t find the waterfall they were hoping to discover, but it sounds like they had a nice walk along the “cute creek.” They sit down and have second breakfast and we all just chill there for a while since there’s no real rush to get back to town. 

Around 11, we set off into the haze and say goodbye to our mossy little campsite here in this exquisite drainage. Bye, Brooks Range! None of us particularly want to leave, but Chelsea is especially sad about it. At one point she slips on a rock crossing a stream. 

“Oh no!” I joke. “Chelsea’s injured, can’t leave. Too bad!”

“I live here now!” she adds. 

But she is thankfully not injured, and we sadly do need to leave, for as is the way of things, time has passed and the end of this journey has arrived. One of us starts singing “Closing Time,” that cliché of a song that bars play to get you to leave. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” We belt out the next line in our silly warbly warding-off-bears voice. “I knOw WhO I waaAAAnt to TaKe me HooOOMmmeee!”

We mess up a little and end up in some wet bog, despite avoiding it completely yesterday. It’s like the Brooks just wants to remind us one last time of what the terrain is really like. Then we cross back over the creek and find the good side-hill walking. At one point we walk across a field of rocks somewhere between the size of talus and the size of scree. I decide to call this “scralus.” The scralus gives way to crispies, which leads to our smooth smooth ATV highway.

We stop for water. Chelsea picks blueberries and slumps on the ground. I will miss the berries. I was hoping for one last round of cloudberries, but the bluebies are good too. 

Once we’re on that sweet sweet ATV track it’s mere minutes back to Anaktuvuk Pass. We walk down the gravel streets, looking at all the different houses. There’s one that looks sort of like a traditional sod house but more adobe-like, with grass growing on the roof.

Earlier this morning we were talking about how a cool component of this trip would be to hire one or a few of the Nunamiut folks in town to speak to hikers about their perspective on and relationship with the land. It feels like the hike has been missing this angle, especially when Nunamiut people still live here and practice many of their traditions. In other places in the US it’s easier to leave out indigenous people or write them in the past tense, but that’s not possible here because they are literally still around everywhere, they still know these lands, they have perspective that we’re not hearing. Carrot ponders this as we walk into the quiet town. “I feel like I just want to knock on a door and listen to someone tell me facts.” 

It’s Sunday, and nothing is open—not the store, the ranger station, the post office, or the multipurpose office on the airplane landing strip that Carrot says has a nice bathroom. So we settle in to wait for our flight back to Fairbanks on the deck of said office building. We throw out our trash, reorganize our packs, and play mini Uno. Then I ask the three of them to sign my (hitherto immaculately white) pack. The result is excellent. I can never forget the bog, the tussocks, the talus, or the hysterical laughter now. 

As we’re waiting, Walter the sheep hunter and his aunt Gladys—the two who told us about the falling rocks and the little people when we arrived here a week and one entire lifetime ago—turn up, waiting, I suppose, to greet the plane. We’re fact-hungry. Carrot in particular asks multiple questions that Walter answers in detail. We learn that the structure we saw last night is a hunting blind for caribou and that they build similar ones higher up on the mountains for sheep; that caribou come through in the fall, usually in October and November; and that the people always let the first herd pass and hunt the second one. Walter says he’s seen bears in the drainage we were in last night, and that he’s learning how to hunt them. He also says that caribou have scent glands in their hooves, which helps them follow the trail left by others. Gladys adds some facts of her own, including that she used to live in Fairbanks but moved back. She likes it here because it’s peaceful and you don’t have to drive everywhere, and you can pick berries wherever you want in peace. 

As we’re talking the plane lands, bringing people and supplies to the remote village. We get Gladys to take a photo of us by the plane. It’ll make a nice before and after. That’s how we measure time now: BB (before bog) and AB (after bog). We check in, say goodbye to Anaktuvuk, and crawl into the aircraft. “I’m so glad I got some facts,” Carrot says excitedly. 

Up and away. It’s smoky today so the views aren’t as good as when we flew in. We actually pass over some fires, which the pilot points out as we cross them. We have to go a little higher than the last time to avoid the rough air. I put in some music and doze on and off. The hike already feels unreal, retreating quickly into the murky past as the plane takes us further south and away from the mountains. 

We land in Fairbanks and make a beeline for the bathroom. Bathrooms! Remember those? It feels so luxurious to use a toilet and a sink. Washing my hands is one of the things I miss the most when I’m on a hike. I finally feel clean after so many days of caked-in dirt and mud and bog. 

Allison had volunteered to pick us up and have us over for dinner, but then she unfortunately tested positive for covid, so that’s not on the table now. Instead, Carrot gets us a Lyft to Allison’s house, where all of our stuff is neatly stacked by the front door ready to be loaded into Carrot’s car. We do the loading and Carrot drives us all to Fred Meyer. I’m overwhelmed by all the people and items. So many items. I get a little wrap and an apple and some dinner materials. The apple is maybe the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

Our next top is Sven’s Basecamp Hostel where we’ll be staying for the night. It’s a really cute place that consists of a cluster of buildings, glamping tents, hammocks, tables, and swings in between trees and gardens. Carrot has booked us an entire “dorm,” which is really a glorified tent/yurt type thing. There are real beds and little reading lights and despite the fact that I love sleeping in my tent, the prospect of not having to wake up in the middle of the night to reinflate my sleeping pad is extremely welcome. 

Carrot starts dinner while Chelsea, Gahl, and I organize ourselves and take showers. We’re all leaving at different times, which means that the goodbyes will be staggered and drawn-out and more painful. Gahl is leaving first this evening, then Chelsea has an early morning flight. Carrot is leaving to drive back to Anchorage in the morning. And I’m sticking around all day tomorrow to visit with some friends. 

But before any of that, we have a delicious dinner. Carrot still has some of the moose stew, so the meat eaters among us devour that. There are also oven-baked fries and a massaged kale salad that is exquisite. We sit at a table in the hostel kitchen and enjoy being together for one last meal on this trip. We follow this feast up with Tillamook cookies and cream ice cream and Dr. Pepper. We’d been excited about Dr. Pepper after seeing all of those cases delivered to Anaktuvuk when we first flew in, but there was none in the store, which was a little disappointing. Gahl has never had a Dr. Pepper. At first she seems dubious about the flavor, but then someone has the brain blast to put Dr. Pepper in the ice cream and it’s revolutionary. 

Carrot takes a shower while Gahl, Chelsea, and I clean up. Then we all lounge in the dorm for a while selecting some of our favorite photos and sending them to the group chat. There are hundreds. It’s overwhelming. I have no idea how to go about selecting what to put where. It’s going to take several Instagram posts for me to even semi-adequately share this experience. 

Soon the inevitable time comes when Carrot must take Gahl to the airport. The first person to leave. That means this is really over. We have one last group hug and then more individual hugs and Chelsea and I walk Carrot and Gahl out to the car. We both start crying as they drive away. We met each other a little over a week ago. How is it possible to feel this way? What is it about hiking, especially difficult hiking, that bonds people like this so immediately?  Is there something inherent about our personalities that made it predetermined that we would get along? Is it just the type of person that Carrot attracts? Or is hiking always like this? I don’t have the answers, and maybe I don’t want them. Long-distance hiking is magic and I am grateful for the immense and innumerable ways in which this specific love of suffering has enriched my life.

Carrot returns a little while later. Chelsea and I have a cup of tea on the porch. Later, all three of us fall asleep scrolling on our phones, reading memes out loud, and going through photos. Chelsea wakes us up when her Lyft arrives at 5 in the morning. I walk her out and watch her leave. Later, she tells me that the driver asked her of me, “Is she going to be okay?” and then, seeing Chelsea crying in the backseat, asked her, “Oh shit! Are YOU going to be okay?”

In the morning, Carrot and I spend an hour or so drinking tea (in her case) and coffee (in mine) and eating breakfast on the porch. We talk of the hike, and Alaska, and the housing crisis, and the ways in which Anchorage sucks but is awesome at the same time. Before long she’s loading up her car and getting ready to leave. 

“Before you go,” I ask, “can you sign my copy of Thru Hiking Will Break Your Heart?”

I’d brought the book with me for this purpose. I feel kind of silly and nerdy asking for this, given that I just spent a week walking with her and now know her personally rather than just as an abstract favorite hiker-writer who lives somewhere on the internet, but she seems pleased. She draws something like what she wrote on my pack and writes the nicest note. I can’t square the fact that I’ve just finished one of the most intense hikes of my life with a person whose work I’ve read and admired for years. Life is so short, but it’s also so long, and you never know the wild twists and turns it’s going to take. Is that not nuts? The everyday mystery of existence on this planet has brought me to this moment: hugging Carrot, watching her pull out of the gravel parking lot and onto the road, Anchorage bound. “Until our paths cross again,” she’d written. I wave and watch until the car is out of sight. Then I’m the last one left. 

In a few hours my friends Tim and Cora (along with their sixteen-month-old son Ezra) come to meet me at the hostel. They were my roommates in Flagstaff, and I haven’t seen them since I moved out in 2018. They now live in the town of Healy, where Cora grew up, two hours away from Fairbanks. It just so happened that they were going to be in town today to drop Tim’s parents off at the airport and to run some errands.

When I see them at the hostel, I all but sprint over and give Cora a hug. Tim’s siting on a swing with Ezra, who I haven’t met before now and with whom I am immediately in love. He has Tim’s deceptively serious expression and Cora’s calm. It’s strange to see them after so long, like it always is with reunited friends. I feel like several lifetimes have passed since we lived together in Arizona, and yet, that era could have been just yesterday.

The rest of the day is mostly spent running errands. I happily just ride along while catching up and enjoying being with them and making faces at Ezra. Tim and Cora tell me that one nice thing about Alaska is that it forces people to be more reliant on community. There’s an email chain where people in Healy and the surrounding area can put in requests for others to pick up items for them when they’re in Fairbanks, so Cora volunteers to pick up a prescription for someone they don’t even know. It’s an odd paradigm, I guess, because people in Alaska tend to be very self-sufficient, so it’s not like they can’t do things, but at the same time, it’s so spread out, expensive, and often physically difficult to live here that you have to have a community to help you out. 

In the middle of all the errands we take a quick interlude at the climbing gym. I haven’t climbed in over a year, so I am predictably terrible, but it’s nice to be back in a gym with them again. We used to all go to the same bouldering gym in Flagstaff. It was so close to our house that we could walk there—on a trail, no less—in fewer than ten minutes. I miss those days. There’s not a lot of climbing in Alaska, it sounds like, and this is the nearest gym to them at two hours away.

We run a few more errands, including a second Costco run that involves dinner. I’ve never been to a Costco, at least not that I can remember. This was a point of amazement for Gahl, Carrot, and Chelsea. The first two especially love that place and got so many of their trail snacks there. I send them a video of my dinner and they all sound very pleased that I am becoming one of them. 

Tim takes one of the two cars back to Healy directly from there, so we say goodbye and take a little family photo and then a selfie in the parking lot. Costco photo shoot! Cora drives me to the airport and we mull over how even a day full of errands can be fun with friends. 

I’ve always really admired Cora and Tim. They’re one of those couples that seem so right for each other. They’re silly and fun and peaceful people. Cora’s ultra-eco-consciousness—of turning lights out, using barely enough water for dishes, avoiding the dryer, using only natural cleaning products, and waiting until the last possible second to turn on the heat, among other habits—still sticks with me. I used to call Tim the “food fairy” because he would bring me extra items from the school food pantry he worked with at NAU while I was a grad student. We would have parties at the house where the main event was a crowd of people around the table trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle from start to finish. I would often walk into the house to the sound of the two of them playing the piano, or singing Cake, or laughing about something in the kitchen. Although that era is over, the connection still feels strong. I want to come back and see Alaska in the winter. See them, see Carrot, see the ice and snow and the Northern Lights.

That’s the problem with travel, if you can call it a problem. Once you’ve been somewhere, you see how much there is, and you want it all. 

I am in the Fairbanks airport for what feels like a small eternity. I fall asleep inside my quilt on two different sets of chairs. I’m exhausted. I try to write but I can’t keep my eyes open. If someone really wants to fight me for my bag of nasty clothes and scuffed-up poles, have at it. No one tries, but maybe that’s just the stink of my quilt and puffy talking. 

In the gift shop past security I see a sweatshirt with the stars of the Alaska flag on it that I work very hard to convince myself not to buy. I don’t buy it, but later I kind of wish I did. In the dark plane at 2:50 in the morning I think about Alaska. About the Brooks Range. About how much pain I was in all the time and the blisters on the sides of my feet from all the sliding around and sideways hills and wet talus and tussocks. About how I laughed to the edge of tears every time Carrot did an animal impression in one of her silly voices. About Gahl’s engaging conversation and Chelsea’s unflappable positivity. About the cloudberries and their unique mealy sweetness beneath a blue sky and green mountains. About the fact that you never knew what the next drainage would bring. 

And I think about Fairbanks, eating breakfast and dinner in Allison’s kitchen with Fern and her wagging tale begging for salmon scraps. Being in the presence of so many amazing women. Watching everyone leave Sven’s. Seeing Cora and Tim again, meeting Ezra, pushing the cart racecar style through the Home Depot aisles while he giggled. I think about the midnight sun and how weird it will be to go back to a night that is dark. 

I didn’t think Alaska would get to me like this. But it has.